That Unexplainable Feeling

It is the Winter of '99. Benjamin, 15, is the man of the house now. And something is in his house.

I’m 15. Alphie left for graduate school last year which means taking care of the house in the afternoon. This is a-O.K with me, nothing I can’t handle. Living in the Bronx will turn you into a man real quick they say. It’s 12:30 when I walk through the door and after a long day at school, it’s nice to drop everything and throw yourself on the bed. I do just that; toss my clothes whichever way and body slam that bed. I dose off.

It takes what feels like a minute to realize that my eyes are actually open. It’s just that dark in here- I must have slept for ages. There’s the rest of a day gone to waste, and I can feel myself frowning almost routinely at this kind of disappointment while fumbling for the clock. 5:30. Damn! There’s a second to think about how many hours it’s been before the laptop seated on the bedside table’s connecting limb senses my movement and blinks on. “Weird”, I say, don’t remember turning you on. It’s sleep talk at its best because what comes out is “dunth rem’mbuh tuning you on”. The screen stays black but the LED display casts an eerie glow, and by the looks of it, you’ve fried on me again. I turn back to the digital clock (5:30), turn back to the computer and start typing up a storm �"playing with the keyboard, clicking the mouse pad �"and when that doesn’t work I run a frustrated hand through my hair and resign. Let ‘Bastian take care of it, he’s the tech wiz after all. I take a look at the clock again and my breathing halts.

5:30

So the clock’s broken too? “Fantastic! Let’s see if the microwave hasn’t melted off the counter-top, and maybe the fridge still has a door (our flat’s been stuck in this limbo of broken appliances for months now). Throwing the covers off and grounding myself, it’s not much of a shocker that the computer falls with me when I trip. I try to steady it with one hand outstretched behind my back, but that gives and the damn thing falls on my head (shit �"s**t, ow!), rolling onto the floor with the sound of heavy plastic against tile. “A round of applause to Benjamin, who manages to break everything, even s**t that’s already broken” I'm rubbing my head, pissed. “Blue screen of death? Just call Ben, he’ll throw that f****r against a wall�"“

Every part of me freezes: behind a jumble of pixels spread across the screen like sand, a white numerical display is counting down.

What, I try to say, what the hell, but something inside my chest �"that tigthness that reduces all speech to a hoarse whisper when you wake up as a kid (momma?) �"keeps it from coming out. In its place is the breathless fish act; my gawking at the thing for a good minute before snapping out of it. 0:11:32 it reads. The new white light makes that old glow intensify, settling on the walls that just kind of… drink it up. Blend with them. It’s me and the laptop laying side by side until I pick us up, set it back down on the bedside table’s extension and experience the most overwhelming sensation of relief when I feel cool metal and yank as hard as possible. The light is blinding.

“Alright. Cool, okay, we’re good. Damn it, man, too much excitement!” I’m speaking aloud, almost yelling, making these exaggerated gestures with my hands and eying pretty much everything because I’m frightened. I’m downright scared shitless and the worst part �"maybe the scariest part �"is that I don’t know what in the hell is tweaking me out like this. A broken clock and some spooky reboot sequence on an already messed up computer?  Better ‘tops are years ahead of us anyhow.

Sitting down helps bring it all to a satisfying conclusion: there was a power outage and the clock is messed up. For all I know, kitchen’s in the same condition. Speaking of which, it’s time for a change of scenery. I leave the computer with its ominous countdown-reboot-whatever (0:08:45) and head down the hall to the kitchen. In the darkness, it feels like forever until I reach it, click the lights on and boost myself onto one of the stools lining the side of our counter. I just sit there for a while and breathe. It’s not the smallest house, but we don’t own a mansion either. Truth be told, it's mostly hallways; the hallways extend and lead off into three bedrooms and a bathroom in the middle of the fork.

Looking into the fridge, I’m glad I was wrong about the appliances. Then I spot the microwave out of the corner of my eye… the analogue display is jumbled up. Behind specs of neon green, a numeric pattern faded almost to nothing is counting down.

0:06:30

There’s that feeling again, the tightness in my chest. My heart rate becomes slow, hard. It’s only at this point that I realize how difficult it is to breathe. Draw in a breath… heavy… let it out. Whatever. Mom will be home at 7 any�"

0:05:00

The light in my room goes out.

Something, somewhere, crashes to the floor.

Author's Note

Hi all! This isn't my first time trying my hand at thriller/terror but my first try at actually putting it out to the public. Since I haven't written anything in a while, I am trying to brush off those cobwebs. I've been fascinated by Stephen King's idea of Terror (see the quote by him regarding the three types of terror) and was hoping to get type #3 in this story.
Please let me know what you think. As far as I'm concerned, this piece is finished unless I'm convinced otherwise. All opinions welcome!

Note: (Photo: Getty) This photograph is not mine and I take no credit for its design or original purpose.